I perhaps didn’t hear.
There was so much said.
Maybe I missed a nuance,
A gesture, a glance.
But it changed the tenor
Of this conversation we were sharing
Or what we were sharing
Perhaps was only in my head.
I might have gleamed over an important word or
Stopped listening as I was pondering a response.
Maybe i just didn’t want to hear
Because sometimes I dont.
Its too much at times
And at times not enough.
Its always a dance, you of many words, me of few who loves my silence.
But I must have missed something.
For there is only silence.
Usually I assume its me.
But this time I think its you.
For someone of many words,
Something is missing.
There is a gap between what I heard
And what you meant me to understand. Trust me. I will listen now.
This silence, has my attention.
There is a pristine whiteness to the lace
that takes me back to France.
To Paris, at the foot of the stairs
leading up to the Sacre Coeur.
There is a group of shops
of handmade lace linens, curtains and delicate under garments.
I have a few items I bought in this district
that I keep nestled in the back of my dresser drawer,
saving for those special occasions
when I want to feel pretty, feminine,…ready.
I thought at first it was the symbolic whiteness that he loved
that it was the color that brides wear, virgin white.
But after we were no longer a couple he wrote me
telling me he missed me and he was longingly remembering
the blue ribbon delicately woven through the white lace
around the décolletage. And I remember how he would
finger that ribbon and the little blue bows at the shoulder
and all this rushed back to me this morning
when my ring snagged some of that precious lace
and dragged to the surface the delicate garment along with the memories.
It is change.
With the sun arching in a high winter elliptical
the hours shortening
the breath becoming visible
another perceptible season is ending.
The aspens sway barren
with the first snow of winter
the bark blends into the landscape
with dark eyes watching over
the softening curve of the slope.
The sap slows and warms. Energy gathering
for a new season, growth.
The world, my heart follows course.
Shedding that which does not serve,
making way for change.
The touch of your hand is so warm.
the world becomes acute in color – and I cannot see anything
but the red of blood rushing in my veins.
I hear two heartbeats, I don’t know which is mine.
Forces draw me nearer to your warmth
and the scent of you fills me
reminding me of warm summer days down by the creek
laying upon warm granite boulders…
and I take it all in
overwhelmed by the closeness of you.
Draw me in and I might disappear
in the light and loveliness
transformed into a new expression
that is neither you or me.
Circling round to a time of solitude.
Time running, overlapping
cosmically juxtaposing one reality over another
life refracts, crosses over to SOMEWHERE…
there is deja vu, those dreams that you can’t shake –
that split you open, draw you through
to an alternate existence –
where possibilities are the reality and
you inner desires manifest brilliantly,
publicly, exhibited under a spotlight
out from the hidden recesses.
Drawn back through the wormhole,
to a time of quiet retreat; living
in the shadows, to recharge, regroup,
lick ones wounds and assess, to form the vision,
to listen to the heartbeat, to hear the rhythm,
to chant the mantra, to feel the swell of the next rising
and to ride the wave
as it comes around again.
Strolling through the market
the bounty of summer lays before me
cool crisp cucumbers
sweet juicy cherries
the smell of fresh shucked corn
I turn and see you with a peach in your mouth
juice dribbling down your chin.
We all want to fly,
like a bird, or an angel
into the unknown.
wing upon the wind
lifting the earth-bound temper
Streaming flock abides
synchronized swooping, arching
Fill the lightened sky
with a dark fluttering dance
mapping our intents
Sheets are cool, birds sing
Your warm hand against my skin
Still summer morning
A windy spring day.
Windows and doors are open.
Large books prop open the doors,
Light airy objects that will blow away weighted down.
The wind whips the curtains through the air
alternately sucking them up snug against windowscreens.
I sit in my soft chair reading my book on light and color
while the wind blows my hair in spirals around my face.
The wind brings the fragrant scent of the magnolia tree
into every crevice of my home.
It cools this hot skin from
time spent in the morning sun.
It billows the edges of my blouse caressing me.
And the sound….is a storm without rain
but with force and fury
that makes me feel alive,
that stirs up every desire
and dilates my eyes wide and dark
to draw you in when you struggle through the door, fighting the wind.
for Phoebe, remembering a conversation
The days move along with a normal ebb and flow.
Unexpected moments of delight and panic continue to come.
The rhythm of a day is joyful.
Pace quickens with extra caffeine.
I do not wish these moments were different.
They are defining ones.
Learning how I spend personal energy.
Where I find my center of gravity.
How life is intact alone.
Yet the color of my palette remains muted.
There is a dullness to this world when you are gone.
Though even pedestrian music unexpectedly moves me…
I wont say I miss you.
But there might be such an admission
If I were forced to testify under oath.
Sometimes it happens this way:
a smile captures your eye
a conversation begins
You are sure you might have
known this person before
over lifetimes maybe
across space and time.
…and you have found each other again.
So when I said yes to his proposal
soon after our introduction
it really was an informed decision.
It didn’t happen in an instant.
there was a subverted history.
Our flourishing proved over time
that this was not just a momentary attraction
but that it was a reconciliation of sorts.
A fulfillment of a promise made at some unknown time.
To be together in peace and tenderness.
I wondered if there was a time when we
had done each other wrong, been unkind,
and that over lifetimes we learned,
were learning, how to let love heal us.
Change into something more than our singular selves.
There was awareness that we were more than the sum of our parts.
We learned to let each other be free.
Because it all came so easily with so much love.
What transpired was more than I could imagine, and
unmatched by anything I had ever known before or seen/experienced since.
And I realize now – it was sacred. A rarity. Something extraordinary.
Sometimes it happens that way.
But it happened to me.
There is a reality forming inside this place
where the windows are steamed up, streaked from the rain outside.
Being here is like living in a memory.
I try to mix a present desire, past hope
and defining realities into a tasteful blend.
In this coffeehouse, in this city, at this time,
I am content to let this brew keep bubbling…
a reconciliation of all competing interests will come to the surface
when the heat, the flavors
meld into a palatable whole.
Then I will drink it all in and be satiated.
The intellectual showed there is a fire in the belly.
That a passing exchange can bring a benediction.
There is a spirit that can feed the reasoned mind,
transforming a thoughtful recitation
into a moment of grace.
A burning pain.
Breathe into it they said.
Blood pooling, spilling.
A slow panic rising,
I tried to come back
from the emptiness.
You can’t fill the space where a soul
It is a forever loss.
An interior shadow
remains and begs for recognition
And there is the continuing dream
of the crying child
reaching up from their crib
for comfort – an embrace,
and I can only
fall back into the dark,
the panic rising,
There is a place in the high country
along the edge of the snow line
where even the trees become starved of oxygen.
In the short summer season Columbine,
Lupine, Bistort and the Periwinkle Forget-Me-Nots
bloom for mere days. In an instant the white and gray landscape
is sprinkled with color.
Climbing the pass there are Aspen whose leaves sparkle green
and make a sound like the gentle beating of birds wings.
It is here I am dreaming of a house that does not yet exist .
A home whose foundation is vaporous, whose walls, floors and doorways are apparitions,
trying to find the shape that fits the home inside me.
Now there is no structural detail.
It is not yet a home.
It is filled with not yet imagined art work.
I am patiently letting the images formulate in my mind.
Its like watching the afternoon clouds build over the mountain range gathering form, depth, darkness.
Masses arise holding water and life inside.
I dream of my home, built into the earth,
heated and cooled by the sulphur waters that bubble up in the caves just behind,
letting the home’s interior follow the natural processes of the earth.
I will keep treasured books, linens, pots and pans
But where they sit, how they are held,
in what juxtaposition to one another?
I do not know.
I am letting it all come to me, like a dream, like a prayer
that forms on ones lips, like a silent longing for something good.
I dream of this place that is love, light, born from inspiration
and shared in visitation, celebration and communion.
Come visit me.